


Oh, it's Christmas!

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [27]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Because it's me, Fluff, Gen, Kidlock, and bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 09:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3204698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first day Sherlock has with Redbeard</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, it's Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. But I want a Irish setter.

Christmas is a serious business when you're six (or, as Sherlock would undoubtedly point out, “Almost seven!”) years old. It's a big celebration. Relatives one never sees otherwise that offer interesting material for observation. Dad's cooking at his best, though that's more Mycroft's thing. (Of course dad's. The man jokes that mum subsisted on air and equations until he came along.) and naturally, the gifts.

Their parents' gifts, of course. Not Santa Claus'. Three years ago, Mycroft had just pointed out some interesting details of the old, fat, red-clad man's supposed endeavours' physics and left Sherlock to his own deductions. The child hadn't disappointed his big brother – and he'd given his parents a talking to as a result, along the lines of, “Don't ever lie to me!” If he can't trust his own parents, after all, who can he trust? Mycroft, apparently. His omniscient big brother. Well, maybe not omniscient, but he certainly knows everything Sherlock has ever asked him yet.

The youngest Holmes, contrarily to most kids, hasn't asked for anything this Christmas. It's not because he's particularly uninterested in gifts, but rather because he doesn't want for anything. Well, that's a lie. He wants desperately something, but it's not anything that his parents can buy and pack for him under the Christmas tree. Not even Santa Claus, were he true, could get him a friend. Because of course that's what Sherlock wants. Mycroft is so much older and smarter, and would rather study than play with him (though he does play with him sometimes – he takes pity on his little brother, Sherlock supposes). If Sherlock only could have someone to play with that didn't pity him that'd be fantastic. But, well, he's himself. People don't really like him.

Oh, no matter. Mum, with an enigmatic smile, has promised that Sherlock will love his gift this year. It'll be a book, he thinks. Maybe the history of piracy he's eyed in the bookstore the other day, when a stupid man told him it was a book for grown-ups with difficult words and suggested Treasure Island. Which of course he already has, and Sherlock suspects his vocabulary is better than the idiot's anyway.

Only at Christmas morning it's obvious that Sherlock's gift is not a book. The parcel is much too big for any book. Sherlock should deduce what it is, but before he can, a light, “Yip!” is heard. Yip? That's what he thinks it is, then? His heart beats faster.

He hurries to open it, and finds inside the cutest little puppy he's ever seen, its eyes shining with intelligence. The puppy welcomes him with a, “Woof!” and a long, enthusiastic lick all over his face, and Sherlock's soul is sold. The child does indeed love him. The puppy leaves his box, starting to sniff Sherlock first and the area then, walking in widening circles around around him, tail wagging like mad. Once he's assessed it and the other components of the family, he returns to Sherlock's side, sits beside him and looks up adoringly.

“See? He likes me!” Sherlock declares proudly. He's been picked over everyone else. This is the best Christmas ever. “What's his name?” he asks then.

“It's your dog, Lockie, you name him,” dad replies with a kind smile. And if Mycroft knows that dogs with a pedigree – like this one clearly is – do have overly long, pompous names given at birth, he shuts up. He has a feeling that whatever his little brother will choose will be more fitting anyway.

Sherlock mulls it over a few seconds, then announces with the widest smile, “Then his name will be Redbeard.”

“Let's just hope he won't pillage the house,” Mycroft mock-grumbles, but that only makes Sherlock laugh. The reddish puppy has been very quiet, as if he knew the moment of his christening to be important, but now he bows on his forepaws and woofs excitedly.

“It means that Redbeard wants to play, Sherlock,” mum explains smiling.

“Can we?” Sherlock queries, eyes shining with enthusiasm. Mum nods, and with an equally excited, “Come, Redbeard!” her youngest child sprints away, the puppy hot on his heels, barking happily.

“We'll have to tell Sherlock that he has to train him,” dad points out.

“More like we'll have to train them,” Mycroft bits back, rolling his eyes. He's failed at goldfishes, and their parents expect Sherlock to be able to take care of a dog? “I'm not walking him,” the teenager declares sourly.

“He'll get more than enough time outside with Sherlock, I'm sure,” Mum reassures him

. In the meantime, Sherlock is leading Redbeard in the exploration of his new kingdom, every safe part, and insidious place (Mycroft's room), and the wide sea of the garden. Sometimes the puppy stops to smell something particularly enticing, but in a second he's back to playing tag with Sherlock. Someone wants to play with him, without needing to be cajoled to do so, and Sherlock hadn't known that such perfect happiness could be possible. He should say to Mum that he's gotten exactly what he wanted – what he hadn't known how to ask for – and how had she even known? (Mum is a genius.)

Even later, when their guests arrive, Redbeard never leaves Sherlock's side – and he's considerably well behaved for a puppy having to face all these strangers on his first day in a new home. He nuzzles Sherlock's leg under the table during lunch, not to beg for food – he doesn't whine – but simply because he likes the contact, and Sherlock pets him all the times he's unspeakably bored, instead of blurting out some insulting deduction (he'll share them with Mycroft later) and enjoy watching the resulting chaos. It might not be very igienic, but it's comforting.

After the lunch, Sherlock is excused because he needs to feed his dog, so he escpaes all the inane comments (part the second) of his now sated relatives. He finds Redbeard's bowls in the garden, feeds him, and then gets distracted by a robin that's come in search for food too. He observes it , and Redbeard doesn't disturb him, by attacking it and making it fly away. The puppy sits down and observes too. The quiet companionship is everything Sherlock has ever wanted.

Redbeard is by his side for the rest of the day, faithful shadow, then finally his parents mention bringing him to his kennel outside to sleep. The puppy – like Sherlock, were he to be honest – is clearly tired. Sherlock raises an incredulous eyebrow. “Outside? And what's wrong with my bed?”

In the end, they compromise. Redbeard will have his own cot beside Sherlock's bed. And if the child falls asleep with one hand still lightly brushing against Redbeard's soft fur, nobody's going to complain. But Mycroft, that is, who got up for a glass of water in the middle of the night and instinctively checked on his brother. If he's not entirely under the covers, Sherlock is going to catch a cold. Silly boy.


End file.
